


Falling is the Easy Part

by Vrunka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Disgusting amounts of fluff, M/M, Work In Progress-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is having a nightmare. Marco covers the distance between their cots with an awkward half-roll, and puts his arm around Jean. Squeezes tight, hugging Jean for all he’s worth. He's not sure why, but he can't imagine allowing Jean to suffer. This could develop into something of a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling is the Easy Part

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh. I don't even know. I've been watching SnK and having a lot of feelings and feelings produce fluff. Enjoy I hope!

It starts off innocently enough.

Jean is having a nightmare, Jean is sweating in his skin, shaking and making these pained little moans and it’s so out of character for Jean—for Jean of all people. Marco doesn’t know what compels him to watch. No one else is watching. They’re all sleeping or pretending to sleep, ignoring the quiet ruckus that Jean is making. But Marco’s bunk is literally right next to Jean’s. There is no wooden divider between their cots. Nothing to obstruct his view of Jean’s human side, a side where he’s not swaggering and confident and, nine times out of ten, fighting like a stubborn mule with Eren.

Marco isn’t sure why, but he is fascinated by this unconscious display. He always plays the nice guy to Jean’s asshole role. It’s nice to see his best friend show something real for once. It’s nice to be the dick for a change.

But then Jean shivers and tosses his head and Marco notices the tears on his cheeks, just small wet tracks, and he doesn’t feel so good about being the jerk anymore. He covers the distance between their cots with an awkward half-roll, and puts his arm around Jean. Squeezes tight, hugging Jean for all he’s worth.

Of course, Jean wakes up at that first touch, at Marco’s palm sliding over his hip. Marco can tell he’s awake by the sudden stiffness in Jean’s muscles, the sharp intake of his breath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jean asks, amazingly quiet, clipped at the edges.

Marco isn’t really sure of the answer. But he doesn’t let go. He rests his forehead on the back of Jean’s neck, presses against the sweaty edge of Jean’s hairline. He swallows. “I’m helping,” he says finally. “I think.” His hand is resting on Jean’s stomach. He can feel the contraction of Jean’s abs thought the flimsy material of his shirt. The in-and-out of his breathing. Mesmerizing and endless. Marco blinks. This could develop into something of a problem. He should probably let go, he knows. It’s a miracle Jean hasn’t punched him yet.

The rhythm under his palm changes slightly as Jean speaks. “Planning on moving any time soon?” he asks, and he doesn’t sound mad, just mildly annoyed. Slightly put out.

“Not really,” Marco confides quietly.

“Okay then,” Jean mutters. His muscles relax ever so slightly under Marco’s hand. “Just don’t molest me in my sleep and you can stay,” he says in that strange flat tone that Marco has learned is Jean’s way of making a joke, his brand of strange sarcasm.

“Okay.”

“And if I wake up with your hard-on pressing into my back, I’ll kill you,” Jean continues.

Marco can’t bring himself to smile at that, he just nods slightly. He breathes, swallows again. Nervous now. This is definitely a problem. His eyes focus on a small mole at the base of Jean’s neck, just visible under the collar of his shirt. Marco licks his lips.  
“Good night, Jean,” he says. He almost misses the slight snort Jean gives at the banality of the comment--something so normal in so abnormal a situation.

“Night, Marco,” he mutters back, and Marco could swear he almost hears a smile sticking to the edge of the words.

~

The next morning, nobody says anything; though the other boys notice, Marco is sure. How could they not? There is nothing subtle about the way Marco is wrapped around Jean’s torso like a blanket. But the others don’t say anything outright.  
It’s isn’t until breakfast that Marco notices the stares.

He is sitting next to Jean, like always, surrounded by the chatter and talk of the other trainees, but he looks up and it’s then he sees Thomas. The way Thomas is rather openly staring. The blond reacts as soon as he realizes he’s been spotted, jumps a little and tries to make it look like he’d been staring idly into space. But Marco is too smart for that. He is suddenly hyper aware of the other boys in the room. Of how their gazes slide to him, stick for a moment--a beat too long to be coincidence--and slide away again.

He puts his loaf of bread down and leans into Jean. “People are staring,” he says, unable to whisper over the din of the room.

Jean doesn’t look over at him, doesn’t glance around. “People always stare,” he answers. He breaks his own bread into pieces, looking bored. “What did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know.”

Jean smiles at that, a tight, condescending pull of his lips. “Does it bother you?”

Marco shrugs. Looks around again. It doesn’t really bother him, per se. Not really. But it’s strange. He’s never been much for the center of attention. He leans away from Jean and balances his chin on the heel of his palm. “Not really, I guess,” he says. “I thought it might bother you.”

Jean chuckles, the smile never faltering. “People always stare,” he repeats, finally glancing over at Marco. “If you’re aiming to be the best, if you want to get into the Military Police, you’d better get used to it.” He knocks their elbows together, sudden and sharp, some parody of camaraderie that only serves to dislodge Marco’s chin from his palm and into the hard wood of the table. Marco sits up with a pained hiss, but Jean just rolls his shoulders and offers a rather insincere sounding, “Sorry” and that’s the end of it. It’s not like Marco was expecting much in the way of an apology any way. It’s not like he really even needs one.

But maybe it’s a good thing. Shows that where they stand hasn’t changed, still best friends. Nothing awkward, nothing different. Marco smiles to himself, goes back to eating his bread in silence, arm brushing Jean’s occasionally.

~

“So you and he are--what? Like a couple now or something?” Sasha is asking, tugging at her bungee gear idly. Marco glances over at her, then instinctively glances around for the instructor. He is apt at showing up at the most unexpected times, and usually when Sasha is doing something she’s not supposed to. Slacking during 3D maneuver gear training is exactly that.

“Where did you even hear something like that?” Marco hisses when he’s sure the coast is clear. He would have assumed that Sasha wasn’t one for gossip. She had never seemed particularly interested in people, only in food.

Sasha shrugs. “I don’t know. Around. It’s all anyone would talk about this morning you know. I didn’t even get one spare scrap because everyone was too busy talking about you and Jean.” She says the name with an eye roll.

“Sorry, I guess,” he offers. “And no, to answer your question. Nothing happened.” He tugs on his own gear, checks the straps. There is the sound of movement from below the edge of the cliff. Marco tenses his legs, lets them relax. Breathes in and breathes out.

And just like that he’s thinking about Jean’s stomach under his hand, how warm Jean was through the night. It had been comforting in a way that Marco couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Even the dampness of Jean’s shirt, where he’d sweated out his nightmare, hadn’t bothered Marco in the least. If he closes his eyes, he can even bring Jean’s scent to memory, something male, dirt and oil. Marco licks his lips unconsciously, opens his eyes. Remembers where he is.

Sasha is staring at him.

“Nothing happened,” he says again. Like it matters.

“That’s not what Connie says,” Sasha says and Marco is about to press her for more information when there is a sharp whistle from below and Marco is off running on instinct.

To the edge of the cliff.

And over it.

He keeps his eyes open as he jumps, closed eyes equals the loss of ten points, and inhales at the start of the fall. Jean is in that inhale. Jean giving him tips about the jumps, about the points, about combat, about life. It seems like Jean is always giving him some pointer or other, helping Marco along. Making him as good of a soldier as Jean is. As free fall starts and vertigo kicks in, Marco allows his mind to drift. Falling is the easy part; Jean had said that, smiling like he was quoting something, but Marco had never asked what. He remembers Jean taking the time to help him practice his strokes, remembers sneaking out and slashing at the dummy titan in the middle of the night, mere hours before the exam. He remembers Jean picking on him, hollow-voiced and sneering for screwing up on the simplest things. He remembers not hating it. Never hating it. Never hating Jean, even though most of the other recruits clearly did. He remembers admiring Jean the first time he met him, even though Jean was being an asshole like always, he remembers thinking that at least Jean wasn’t bullshitting. At least Jean was an honest asshole. And as the line goes taut and Marco is jerked back into space by the elastic pull of the bungee he wonders when this happened. When his respect and admiration became love.

Falling is the easy part, Jean had said. And so it seemed it was true.

~

Marco, in the wake of his revelation, proceeds to do the only thing that seems appropriate for the situation. Which is to say he avoids Jean for the rest of the day. He ducks him during class by squeezing in between Eren and the wall, he teams up with Connie for combat practice, he skips dinner. Jean doesn’t seem to notice Marco’s absence. Marco doesn’t know whether to happy or sad about that.

As the evening winds down and the trainees part from the dining hall and split off to their respective dorms, Marco watches from the shadows of one of the lookout towers. He catches sight of Jean with Daz and Franz and steps further back into the darkness. His plan is to return to the dorms only after Jean is asleep. The group pauses at the door to the sleeping quarters, Franz turning and leaning against the frame, laughing loudly at something Daz says. The distance is too great for Marco to hear any of the words. But he can see the effect they have on Jean. How Jean’s shoulders stiffen and straighten, an infinitesimal movement, something no one but Marco would probably notice.

Jean is uncomfortable.

Jean is about to do something stupid.

Despite his better instincts, Marco jogs out from under the lookout tower, waves his hand and calls out to Jean.

“Speak of the devil,” he hears Daz mutter as he gets closer. And then Marco gets it, knows then what they were talking about. What they were picking on Jean for, though picking on Jean is basically asking for trouble. The trainees have been together for nearly a year, everyone knows Jean’s fuse is too short; he’s lucky he hasn’t been caught brawling yet.

Marco makes the split second decision to take the high road, pretend he didn’t hear Daz’s comment. “Hey guys,” he says, pulling even with Jean, “what’s going on?”

Daz rolls his eyes and looks at Franz. Franz coughs, shrugs. “Not much, Marco,” he says, sounding nervous, unhappy, “just uhh. We were just.”

“Leaving,” Daz finishes, sneering.

And with that he’s pushing passed Franz and into the building. Franz is quick to follow. Marco glances at Jean, Jean is frowning. He looks more threatening than usual. Marco swallows.

“You don’t have to help me with my problems you know,” Jean says, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not a dumbass like Eren and you aren’t Mikasa. You shouldn’t even try.”

Marco blinks back his hurt at the statement. “I just want to be of use,” Marco says, “and I don’t want you to get kicked out and sent to the landfills. If they catch you fighting--,”

“Yeah, well that would be my problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Not if you’re fighting because of me.”

Jean’s shoulders relax slightly. Something like a smile falls onto his face. It isn’t quite as cold as his usual grins. “I guess you’ve got a point. So fine, Mom, you’ve got it. No more fighting when assholes call me a faggot. Happy?”

Marco shrugs. “I guess that will have to do,” he concedes and Jean chuckles. “Sorry I caused all this mess for you.”

Jean waves him off. “Not really a mess. People will talk because people are stupid and jealous.” He says. “Where were you all day?”

“I was around.” Marco says.

“Did someone say something to you? About last night?” There is something possessive in Jean’s voice and Marco has to fight not to fall into it. To trust it. He’s not Mikasa. He shouldn’t even try.

“No,” he says, leaning back, smiling. It feels unnatural, but he persists until Jean looks away. “I mean, come on, why would they?”

“You’re a shit fucking liar.”

Marco deflates, leans back in, shoulders curling inward.

“Are you going to let it stop you?”

“Am I going to let what stop me from what?” Marco asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are you going to let people’s talk stop you from doing what you want to?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Jean sighs. “I want you to do whatever you want to do, okay? The question is: will you let shitheads decide what that is for you?”

Marco squints. “So,” he pauses, tips his head, and beings to string the sentences into some semblance of logic. “So I can keep,” what should he call it? What even was it? Cuddling? Hugging? Something worse, more steeped in meaning? “helping you?”

“If you want to,” Jean says, crossing his arms. “I don’t really care, one way or another,” he bites his lip and then adds, “but I’m not complaining if you keep it up.” He looks away quickly after saying it and Marco can feel himself blushing.

“Okay then,” he agrees.

“But no more hiding,” Jean says suddenly, working himself back up to his normal state of grumpy, “you can’t do it if you’re gonna act like a pussy when people start talking.”

Marco chuckles, he can’t help himself. There’s so much to Jean, so much shell, so much show. Marco loves him for it, for the rare instances when it drops. As much as Jean has tried to stay away from everyone, he’s just like everyone else. Lonely deep down, craving contact. And Marco is more than happy to fill that role. To be of use.

“Deal,” he says, holding his hand out and making it a formal agreement.

Jean takes the hand with an exaggerated roll of his head. “You’re such a fucking moron, Marco.” But there is very little menace in his words.

“I like you too, Jean,” he says, unable to stop himself, playing his overwhelming love down into a joke. He grins. Jean’s palm is warm against his. Jean has no idea what he’s getting himself into. Has no idea how greedy Marco can be. Marco twists his hand, interlocks their fingers. Drags Jean with him into the dormitory with their hands still clasped. Fuck people, Marco thinks, he has Jean and that is enough.

~

Six months pass.

After the second month, the talk dies down. The other trainees stop giving a shit. There’s other gossip to catch their attention, other relationships to scandalize. When it comes down to it, Marco and Jean are really rather boring. All they ever do is cuddle, Marco’s chin resting on the top of Jean’s head, his hands folded over Jean’s side, their legs entangled. It’s all horribly vanilla, and people lose interest quickly.

Jean notices the lack of attention, but he doesn’t really care if people are watching or not.

At the six month mark, they still have not moved beyond the cuddle phase of things, and Jean figures maybe Marco missed the hint. He probably could have been clearer. But it was hard enough saying it the way he had said it. When he’s not being a dick, Jean doesn’t really know what’s expected of him, what he’s supposed to say to people. So he accepts Marco’s hugs, doesn’t complain or point out the times Marco drools in his hair or wakes up with a morning erection. He continues to do his best to keep Marco in the top percentile with him during examinations. He pretends he doesn’t notice the stupidly adorable things that Marco does, his stupid grins and his stupid freckles and his stupid naiveté.

This is one of those times.

“Your hair is getting kinda long, isn’t it?”

It’s an echo. Jean knows he’s heard it somewhere before, but he can’t remember where. And then he does, he remembers watching Mikasa walk off into the night with Eren. It doesn’t make his statement any less true.

Marco looks up blinking. His bangs hang into his eyes. The back is forming a shaggy sort of bob. Jean narrows his eyes. “Your hair,” he reiterates.

Marco runs his fingers through the strands, shrugs. “I was,” he fidgets, looks away. Jean follows his gaze. Mikasa is across the dining hall. Marco’s bob could almost be mistaken for a messy version of her perfection.

“I just thought you might like me more if I looked more like--,” Marco is saying.

Jean snorts. “You don’t need to do that,” he says, dropping his volume so Marco has to lean in to hear him.

“What?”

“I said I like you like you, asshole. So get a fucking haircut.”

It’s the closest Jean will ever come to saying it, to admitting how he really feels, how Marco makes him feel, so he hopes Marco takes the hint this time. Marco is blushing. It makes his freckles stand out and Jean traces nonsense patterns in them with his eyes. Jean hates the way he does that, how Marco makes him want to stop and stay and indulge in just being.

When Marco shows up for horse riding drills later that day, his hair is back to its normal cut, the bangs framing his forehead, the back short and kept. Jean wonders idly if Eren feels this way; if knowing that he has someone who would do anything for him makes him feel like a better person, like he’s worth something. Then he remembers that Eren’s an idiot, and Jean doesn’t give two fucks about what he feels. Besides, Mikasa isn’t Marco. Marco isn’t Mikasa. They are different. Watching Marco saddle his horse, Jean realizes that somewhere along the line he got over Mikasa. Somewhere along the line of letting Marco hold him through the night, he’s fallen sort of irreversibly into love. And doesn’t that just suck?

He doesn’t know what to do with himself when Marco’s arm wraps around his middle that night. Doesn’t know what he wants to do. He’s been a pretty big coward thus far, he knows. He lets Marco make the moves, he lets Marco set the boundaries. If they should get into trouble, Jean can absolve all responsibility to Marco, and he knows without a doubt that Marco would take that blame. But he wants something more. He just doesn’t know how to say it without being revoltingly honest.

“Are you okay?” Marco asks the back of his neck. Because of course Marco notices. Because he’s fucking Marco.

“I’m fine,” Jean says, rolling his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. In the dark, Jean can’t see Marco’s expression. Which is strangely dissatisfying. So Jean fixes the problem. He wiggles slightly, loosening Marco’s grip on his shirt, and turns onto his other side. Face to face now. Marco’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, eyebrows cocked. He is blushing again. Surprised but happy. Jean wonders when he got so good at reading Marco’s expressions.

“What are you doing?” Marco whispers, his hand has yet to return to Jean’s side, is hovering by Marco’s neck. Jean fixes that problem with the same sudden efficiency. He places Marco’s hand on his hip, covers with his own.

“I thought we could use a change of pace,” Jean answers, honest enough. “Is this okay?” He hopes Marco realizes how much it takes for him to ask that, to consider both of them in this proposition instead of just himself.

“This is fine,” Marco says and now that they’re closer, facing one another, Jean can see the joy hidden in the corners of Marco’s upturned lips. He loves that joy, that he is the reason for it. The love makes him defensive.

“Yeah, well, this is probably just a one-time thing, okay? So don’t get used to it or anything,” he says, frowning, though the frown feels ridiculous and pouty. Far from his normal, threatening glower.

Marco leans his head closer and Jean thinks for a wild moment that things are going to make another leap; that Marco is going to kiss him. But Marco just closes his eyes and chuckles, calling Jean’s bullshit. “Real tough, Jean,” he mutters. “You’re real scary, you know that?” And then like that, Marco is out, asleep in seconds flat.

Jean sort of hates him for that, though from the wrong angle that hate looks all too much like sickeningly sweet love.

~

“The battle planification trainees squad in Trost, huh?” Jean is saying before he’s even really aware of it, his mouth running away with him. “Count me in with Marco, then,” he swallows, tries to cover with an added, “I could use the good luck.” But his cover doesn’t seem to mean much; everyone in the small group is staring at him. Marco’s cheeks are dusted with a blush, his mouth open slightly. Jean coughs, throws the attention at Eren instead. Forces things back to normal, holds it all in place with his bullshit and his loudness.

As good as he is at telling it like it is, he’s pretty fucking good at faking it when it counts.

It isn’t until later, when they’re alone, making their way back to camp that Marco turns to him, looking serious and says, “I think you’d make a better leader, Jean.”

Jean makes a face, rolls his shoulders. The movement causes their arms to brush and Jean has the ridiculous urge to hold Marco’s hand. He can only vaguely remember the feel of Marco’s fingers in his. It seems a sin the memory should feel so distant. “Me?” He asks, trying to diffuse the sudden tension, the things unstated. “You can’t be serious. Courage ain’t no quality of mine.” He tips his head and touches the back of his neck. It’s one of Marco’s habits, something he has unconsciously picked up. “What makes you think that?”

Marco stops, turns to face Jean more fully. He looks nervous. Honest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you,” Marco pauses, bumps his elbow against Jean’s, “you’re not exactly what I’d call strong; so you’re well-placed to understand what the weak feel like.” Marco says.

Jean isn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to take that. “What the hell?”

“It makes you adept at judging any situation with accuracy,” Marco continues, pointing to his head. Getting into it now, getting passionate. “So you know exactly what to do at all times. Know what I’m saying?” He drops his hand. “And besides, strength can often lead to foolhardiness. False courage gets people killed more often than not.” He grins. The air around them sighs with a quiet, soothing wind. It ruffles Marco’s hair, blows his bangs across his forehead. “I envy that, really. I wish I could be more like you.”

Jean snorts. “A cowardly asshole?”

“No. Someone who tells the truth, someone who doesn’t sugar coat. Someone who can make the tough calls. You could do that.”

“Because I’m a heartless bastard?”

Marco chuckles. “Sort of.”

“Gee, thanks. And here I thought you loved me or something,” Jean says. And he means it as a joke, he really does. But once it’s out, it isn’t so funny. Jean desperately needs confirmation that it’s true, that Marco loves him. That it’s more than just fascination and infatuation, some misguided sense of purpose.

Marco is blushing again. “Well, I mean,” he stutters. Looks away. Stands up straighter. When he looks back at Jean his expression is determined, “Yeah, of course I do.”

Jean blinks. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy. But then again, this is Marco. His honesty and good intentions could put a priest to shame.

“You don’t have to be so serious about it,” Jean says, laughing slightly. Relieved and nervous all at once. Because now it’s his move and he’s not so sure what that should be.

He takes a small step forward. The toes of their boots are touching. Everything smells like grass and summertime. Jean is determined to commit this moment to memory. He will hold onto it forever, he will keep it beating along with his pulse. He judges the distance from his lips to Marco’s, how far he’ll have to stretch. A few centimeters. Nothing much. Marco’s eyes are huge, the dark brown of his irises devoured completely by his pupils. Jean takes a hesitant breath, closes his eyes.

And Marco beats him to the punch.

Jean barely has time to catch up with the racing of his heart, the sudden fluttering nausea. Familiar vertigo. Marco’s lips are soft and unsure, pressing lightly against his own. Jean’s hands are clenched at his side, but some instinct kicks in and he raises them to Marco’s head. He tangles his fingers in the strands and seals their mouths together more fully, making the pressure more even and real. When he breaks the kiss, opens his mouth to catch a lungful of air, Jean notices that Marco’s hands are curled around his hips. The most natural thing in the world. Marco is still blushing.

“I wanted to be the one to kiss you, you dick,” Jean chides, looking down at their feet. He can feel his own blush, the tight discomfort of it across his cheeks.

Marco makes a sound something between a laugh and a snort. “Yeah? Well, you were taking too long,” he says, nudging his nose against Jean’s forehead, making Jean look back up at him. “I don’t know if I can keep myself from doing it again, you know,” he informs him soberly.

And then it’s Jean’s turn to chuckle; to bounce up slightly on the balls of his feet, resting his weight against Marco’s chest. “I want you to do whatever you want,” he says with a smirk, “I thought we’d already established that.” Marco opens his mouth to respond, but Jean decides he’s had quite enough talking for one night and presses their lips together again, grinning into the kiss. Marco lets out a small sound of protest at the same time that his hands tighten on Jean’s hips, so Jean chooses to ignore the noise and deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue along Marco’s lower lip. Pressing himself as close as he can get.

Jean doesn’t know how long they are out there kissing. When they finally decide it’s time to head back, dusk has stolen over the scene, quiet and peaceful. Jean holds Marco’s hand in his, traces his fingers over Marco’s knuckles. Memorizes the dips and curves, a landscape of Marco’s life in Jinae.

“I think we may have missed dinner,” Jean says, like food was something he’d been thinking about. Keeping up the act. It’s a matter of expectation and habit now.

Marco shrugs, never removing his hand from Jean’s grasp. “Like you really care,” he says, tugging lightly on the grip, getting them moving, “but come on, we can probably scrounge something up in the kitchens.”

“Steal food?” Jean asks sarcastically. “Why, Marco, I like the way you think.”

Marco grins. His lips are pink, swollen just a bit. Jean runs his tongue along his own, wondering if they look the same. He wonders if the others will notice, will peg what they’ve been up to. He sort of hopes someone mentions it, that someone will give him a reason to brag about Marco. About how Marco makes him feel squirmy and happy and in stupid, sunshiney love.


	2. Unfamiliar Vertigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go, the promised sex is forth coming...sorta. And some more derp-de-derp Jean. Because that is my favourite type of Jean.

Jean never really gets the chance to brag because no one really brings it up. No one mentions the way Jean and Marco will hold hands when travelling between training sessions, the way they are nearly inseparable from dinner to bed to breakfast the next morning. There’s a week where people gossip about how much more intimate the two seem but then Connie is caught jerking off and mumbling about Ymir and all of the sudden Jean and Marco are passé.

Jean is oddly bothered by this.

But at the same time, he has Marco’s undivided attention without the stress of people horning in on the two for the latest gossip. And Marco’s undivided attention is not something to be taken lightly. After their first kiss on the training grounds, Jean wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from Marco physically, but it suffices to say he hasn’t been disappointed.

Marco, while maybe not the most experienced, is an enthusiastic lover. He is innocent and vibrant and always eager. Jean loves the times he can drag Marco away from dinner, or sneak out after everyone’s asleep and find some stretch of woods to mess around in. He loves learning Marco’s body, what makes Marco shiver or laugh or moan. Jean loves running his fingers through Marco’s hair, loves kissing his cheeks, counting each and every freckle as he does so. He loves unbuttoning Marco’s shirt, following his fingers with his lips and scraping his teeth against Marco’s sternum. He loves the sounds Marco makes when he does that, loves Marco’s quiet, gasping little noises.

Though Marco is not all that much taller than Jean, he’s thicker. Much more solid. Jean takes time every time they sneak away to marvel at how much more built than him Marco is. He indulges in the differences that drive him crazy when they’re on the field. Where Jean’s hips are sharp, protruding under his clothes, Marco’s are blunt, sturdy. Almost a woman’s hips. His chest isn’t as thin as Jean’s, his ribs are still lined with baby fat. Marco’s ribs are ticklish. As is his waist. Jean finds these things out by accident and Marco, pink and haughty, threatens him until Jean promises never to tell anyone. Like Jean would. He’s incredibly greedy when it comes to Marco.

He will never stop or get tired of kissing Marco’s lips. He will never stop or get tired of touching Marco’s stomach, or of scratching down his chest, or of jerking Marco off. The first time he does that, trails his fingers under the waistband of Marco’s uniform, Marco sputters and straightens and asks, scarlet-faced, if Jean is sure he wants to do that. And of course Jean is sure. How could he not be with a reaction like that? Marco is something innocent and fragile and some part of Jean needs to corrupt some piece of that innocence. 

Jean never lets Marco touch him back.

That first time Jean had come in his trousers; pressing his hips into the grass as he had sucked a hickey into Marco’s hip, his hand sliding easily up and down on Marco’s cock; and after that it just sort of became routine. Marco is getting better at holding out, at not coming after only a few hasty jerks. Jean is vaguely worried that if Marco touches him he won’t have the same stamina. That he’ll come just as soon as Marco’s fingers brush him.

“But I want to,” Marco is saying, panting. He hasn’t come yet, he is holding Jean’s wrist to keep Jean from touching him. His bottom lip is trapped firmly between his teeth. Jean can see how hard this is for him. “Just this one time, please. Would you let me try?”

Jean shudders at the platitude in Marco’s voice, his desperation for equal ground. And though Jean thinks he might die of embarrassment, he begrudgingly consents to let Marco have his way. Just this once. Marco smiles when Jean nods, nuzzles against Jean’s temple lovingly. “Just this once,” Jean says when Marco kisses his cheek, when he lowers his lips and kisses Jean’s jaw.

“Just this once,” Marco agrees with a smirk. Jean can feel the movement of the grin against his skin. He tangles his fingers in Marco’s hair, uses that grip like an anchor, keeping himself grounded in the sensation of Marco’s teeth scraping down the column of his throat. Marco’s hands make quick work of the clasps on Jean’s pants. It’s almost a surprise when his calloused fingers circle the head of Jean’s cock. Jean hiccups, startled by how warm Marco is, all of his muscles going taut at once.

“Hold on,” he starts to say, speaking into Marco’s hair. But it’s too late. He’s too far gone, just like he’d feared. “Marco, I’m going--,” and then he is. Already there. Coming in Marco’s palm with another embarrassing shudder and a groan. Marco chuckles, actually chuckles—the bastard—and raises his hand to his lips. Jean looks away, squeezes his eyes shut against the sight.

“That was fast,” Marco says quietly, rubbing a soothing circle with his fingertips on Jean’s hip.  
“Shut up, Marco.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I said shut up, Marco,” Jean repeats, opening his eyes. Marco’s face is too close for him to see properly, is just a blur of freckles and pale white skin. Jean looks away, up toward the sky. The moon is swollen and silver. It almost looks drunk, askew in the sky. Jean refocuses on Marco. “Well what about you?” he asks, like Marco has so many times now.

Marco tips his head forward, kisses Jean on the lips. Jean can taste himself on Marco’s tongue, the salt-sweet flavor of his come. He locks his hands in Marco’s hair as they kiss, allows himself to lose his embarrassment and annoyance at himself in the edges of Marco’s teeth, in the pout of Marco’s lips. “What about me?” Marco asks as they part, nipping Jean’s lip as he pulls back a little.

Jean rolls his eyes, playing up his part. “I mean: do you want me to help you with the little problem you still seem to be sporting?” Marco looks down himself once, briefly, than looks back up at Jean and laughs.

“You shouldn’t have to ask, Jean,” he says, still smiling some damn smug looking smile that Jean hates in the most loving way possible, “I want you to do whatever it is you want to do, right?” He says, winking.

Jean rolls his eyes, mostly out of habit, then leans forward to cup Marco’s ears. “You aren’t cute,” he admonishes. Lying with every fiber of his being. Marco tilts his head, moving Jean’s hands as he does so, gripping them in his own.

“In all seriousness,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jean answers, cutting him off, “I know.” He moves his hands to Marco’s shoulders and pushes him down, nudging Marco’s knees apart with his own, filling the space. Marco is blushing again somehow; Jean wonders how he still can, after all the times they’ve done this. He wonders where Marco keeps that reserve of endless innocence, what gives Marco the right to be so stupidly, fucking adorable.

Jean doesn’t take his time this time, he arches his fingers and drags them down Marco’s sides, eager to get back to where they left off. Eager to pay Marco back in triple. He pauses only briefly at Marco’s cock, grips Marco fully and strokes him once. Then, with a glance up at Marco’s face, he’s placing his lips at the tip. He gives the head a full, wet kiss before opening his mouth further, taking Marco in. Marco makes a strangled noise, a groaning approximation of Jean’s name. His hands are suddenly in Jean’s hair, fingernails scratching at the shorn sides.

“You don’t have t--,” Marco is sputtering, though his fingers are scrabbling and desperate and telling Jean that yes, in fact, he does have to do this. It takes Jean a moment--more than a moment, if he’s going to be completely honest--to get used to the feel of Marco against his tongue, along the ridge of the roof of his mouth. The impatient little twitches of Marco’s hips don’t help. But Jean is stubborn. That stubbornness has gotten him pretty far in life.

He slides his arm across Marco’s stomach and uses his weight to hold Marco in place. Lowers his head at his own pace. It’s new and strange, but Jean isn’t complaining. Especially not when, after only a few small movements, Marco’s hands flutter and twist, pulling Jean’s hair almost painfully as he comes. It’s unexpected. Jean pulls back with a cough, wiping the back of his hand across him mouth, surprised at the amount of saliva on his chin. Marco is looking at him, wide-eyed. Jean grins.  
“That was fast,” he says, winking. Joking.  
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Marco admits. He is smiling back, but he’s still blushing. Not making eye contact. He is biting his lip, eyes narrowed, looking serious.  
Jean suddenly can’t breathe through all the nervousness in him.  
As sudden as any jump, straight vertigo, only this time there’s no rope, no gear, just gravity. Marco’s hands are fisted, one in the grass, one gripping the blanket the two had smuggled with them. Jean doesn’t know what to say, how to justify the distance in Marco’s eyes.  
Marco looks down and Jean feels his stomach knot. He doesn’t know why it’s like this, why things are awkward now. Now when they should be closest.  
And he doesn’t know how to fix it.  
So he doesn’t try. He plays his part. Keeps things afloat with his bullshit. “We should be getting back,” he says, knocking his elbow against Marco’s knee. “We’ve been gone awhile, people might notice.”

“People will definitely notice,” Marco agrees. He swallows, Jean can trace the motion in his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple. He fights with himself, bites his tongue so he can’t ask what’s wrong, even though he desperately wants to know.

It doesn’t take the two of them very long to get dressed again, but by the time they do, a cloud has passed over the moon. They make their way back to the barracks in the dark. It isn’t easy going, but Jean gets to hold Marco’s hand in his and it helps to relieve some of his anxiety. Whatever it was, whatever made Marco look so distant and uncertain, it can be worked out later. It can be conquered. There is nothing wrong, nothing Jean can’t fix.

But he doesn’t get the chance to ask Marco about it, not that night. Instructor Shardis is waiting for them when they get back, and although the two make up a seamless lie about training in the middle of the night, they still get a nice long lecture about becoming Titan fodder and are made to run laps as punishment. By the time they stumble back to bed, Jean is too exhausted to speak, especially about something as complicated as his feelings. He simply climbs into the cot, and rests his head on Marco’s chest. Lets the beating of Marco’s heart lull him into short, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, it’s like nothing has changed. Marco greets him with his usual, sleep-drunk smile, and a sloppy kiss to the top of his head. The circles under Marco’s eyes are the only indicator that last night wasn’t their usual fare. They hold hands again on their way to breakfast and Jean considers the whole deal solved. Marco being weird was just that, a solitary moment among many moments. Marco can get too introspective at times, tends to overanalyze when left alone too long. That sadness in his eyes, that gleam of regret, can be chalked up to that.

With that answer, Jean soldiers on.

They don’t sneak out during dinner or after everyone is asleep. Jean doesn’t ask to and Marco doesn’t mention it. They turn in earlier than everyone else, wrapped up in one another just like always. And Jean thinks they’re okay. Jean trusts that they are.  
“You wanna go somewhere?” he asks, three days later.

Marco looks up from his stew, there’s a little bit of it stuck to his chin. Jean wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb, licks it off his finger without thinking. Across the table, Thomas sputters, coughs and excuses himself. Sometimes Jean forgets they aren’t alone. It’s sort of a problem.

“Right now?” Marco asks. His eyebrows are quirked, but he’s smiling. He knocks their knees together under the table.

“Sure.”

Marco shakes his head. “Can’t. Plans. Didn’t I tell you?”

Jean doesn’t know quite how to process those simple words, but he’s falling again, remembering how damn upset Marco had seemed those few nights back. Plans? No one in the squad makes plans. It’s just not done. They have nowhere to go.  
“You didn’t mention it,” Jean manages, turning his face away from Marco, tapping his own spoon against his tin of stew.

“Oh, uhh, sorry?” Marco offers. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “But Armin and I were talking and he has some really interesting theories. I told him we could talk more after dinner.” And if that isn’t the flimsiest lie that Jean has ever heard he doesn’t know what is. Jean frowns, it feels sulky, even to him. “Don’t pout, Jean. I’ll only be an hour. Maybe less.”

Jean doesn’t bother changing his expression. He doesn’t care if it looks childish. Marco is pushing him away, after forcing Jean to open up and want people, Marco is abandoning him. Jean did something wrong with that blow job, sucked something out of Marco that he shouldn’t have and now everything is going to shit. And maybe it’s overdramatic, but Jean honestly believes it. And it sort of makes him feel like crying.

He turns his head, catches a glimpse of Armin’s hair, he’s sitting with Eren and Mikasa like always. Armin is made of sunshine and baby tears and other things that people like. Jean bites his lip. “Whatever,” he says, grabbing his plate up without another glance at Marco, “have fun.”

“Jean, would you wait? It isn’t—,”

But it is. Jean’s face burns with his blush and the more he tries not to think about it the more he is and he can’t fucking stop because Marco is also made of sunshine and freckles and constellations and fuck both of them. His eyes are stinging and if he faces Marco, Marco’s going to notice and then Jean knows he won’t be able to stop from crying and saying everything he’s thinking and breaking everything that he has. So he shakes his arm out of Marco’s grip and storms out.

He doesn’t know where he’s headed, but he heads there. He ends up at the stables. He’s still clutching his fucking plate. Marco doesn’t want him anymore, maybe never wanted him to begin with. Jean drops the plate and leans his back against the wall of the stables.

He’s going to be sick. He’s going to vomit. With shaky movements, Jean lowers himself, gets his head between his knees. He grips his hair and forces himself to breathe, forces himself to calm down. The air around him is thick with the scent of horses, the quiet nickering of the stallions.

Marco didn’t follow him out of the hall. It stings in more ways than it should.

But even Jean has to admit, maybe he doesn’t deserve Marco’s patience. He can’t even ask Marco what’s wrong, what he did wrong. Frankly, Jean’s been selfish again. From square one.

Jean drops his hands and cranes his neck back, relaxes his knees and sits. The moon isn’t full anymore, but is only a shade thinner than it had been. Jean knows what he has to do; realizes he has to go apologize, for a lot of things. For being an asshole again, mostly. He sits and listens to the noises of the horses and organizes his thoughts. Scripts his apology. He manages not to imagine Marco’s reactions, but only just. If he thinks too hard about it, he’ll chicken out, he knows.

Because Marco pretty much pegged it when he called Jean a coward.

It takes Jean another ten minutes to get back to the dining hall, only to find everyone gone. He hits up the dorms next, but Marco nor Armin are anywhere to be found. So Jean goes to the next best person.

Even if it makes him want to die to ask Eren Jaeger for anything.

“You know where Armin’s gotten to?” Jean asks, standing on his toes to lean on Eren’s bunk. Trying for casual and friendly. Jean isn’t particularly good at either of those things.

Eren makes a face. “Why would I know?” he asks and Jean sort of wants to punch him for being so fucking clueless.

“I’m just looking for Marco, okay?” Jean says, keeping his temper in check. But it’s so hard to stop from yelling when Eren’s expression shifts from confused to that flat haughty look he takes on when he’s being stupid and superior.

“Last I saw him, Armin was headed for the gear shed,” Eren says, surprisingly civil. He looks away from Jean as he speaks, crosses his arms. “But I don’t know if Marco was with him. I mean why would he be?” Eren narrows his eyes, looks back at Jean. “Come to think of it why are you looking for Marco anyway?”

Jean closes his eyes, counts to ten. “Because he’s my friend.”

“You have friends?” and the honest amazement in Eren’s voice, the complete surprise, deflates any anger Jean could have at such a statement. Because Jean doesn’t really do friends, doesn’t really have any other than Marco. And that makes it all the more important for him to find Marco and make things right.

“Just a few,” he answers, grimly, letting go of the edge of Eren’s bunk and lowering himself back to the floor.

As luck would have it, gear storage is the closest building to the dormitories. It’s technically off-limits after drills are done, but no one bothers to lock the doors, so Jean has an easy time sneaking in unnoticed. He hears Marco’s laughter almost as soon as the door closes behind him. It’s not difficult for him to pick out which room it’s coming from.

“I’m serious, though,” Armin’s voice is saying, a higher tenor than Marco’s, “you’re doing it too hard.” There’s a noise, a chuckle? A moan? Jean can’t tell through the muffling effect of the walls. “See? There’s marks,” Armin continues. His voice seems different, breathless, echoed through the building like it is. Jean is going to fucking kill both of them. The door is ajar. Jean barrels through it. He’s going to—

 

Marco looks up from his 3D maneuver gear, surprised by the force with which Jean explodes into the room. Armin stops mid-word, mouth open, staring. Jean deflates almost instantly and it would almost be comical if it weren’t so sad. His gaze switches from Marco to Armin and back. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, like what he’d intended when he barged in has died on his lips. Marco can practically see Jean’s mind processing the scene. He understands what Jean had been thinking, he’d sort of always known, it was why he hadn’t mentioned his meeting with Armin. He had sort of wanted to see what Jean would do. He feels bad for it now. Isn’t that how it always goes? He just wasn’t made to be the bad guy.

“Hey, guys,” Jean says finally, recovering poorly. Straightening. He palms the back of his head and Marco recognizes the move as his own habit. Something Jean has absorbed and reflected.

“Hi, Jean,” Armin responds, just as slow. He lowers his hand from where he’d been pointing out the scratches and dings along the body of Marco’s 3D gear. He tips his head, clearly still confused. “Uh, you here for routine maintenance too?”

“Maintenance…?” Jean echoes. Then he frowns. His whole face collapsing into the most ridiculous expression that Marco has ever seen. He focuses on Marco. “You’re telling me you’re fucking cleaning your gear together?”

“Gear maintenance is important,” Armin says, oblivious. He’s picked up one too many things from Eren it seems, “we’re literally putting our lives on the line every time we use it. If we don’t know our gear inside and out how are we supposed to--,”

“Yeah, thanks, Instructor,” Jean growls sarcastically. “You knew, didn’t you? You planned all this. You, you shithead,” he says, glaring at Marco. Armin looks over at him too, catching onto Jean’s not so subtle tunnel-vision.

“To be fair,” Marco says, raising his hands, “I didn’t know you’d lose it like you did.” He smiles, meek and apologetic. “I am sorry, I didn’t really mean for you to get so worked up.”

“Bullshit,” Jean says, crossing his arms. And he’s mostly right so Marco doesn’t argue. “And here I was even coming to apologize and everything. I mean, fuck you, Bott. You’re an asshole. You don’t deserve an apology.”

“You were going to apologize?” Marco asks, a little stunned. Even with how close they’ve grown, apologies are not something he thought that Jean could produce.

“Should I go?” Armin asks, shifting nervously. “This seems. I don’t think I need to be a part of this.”

“Yeah, you can go,” Jean says, offhandedly. Dismissive. Good old Jean, filling in the outlines of himself perfectly. “Tell Jaeger to fuck himself when you see him.”

“Uh,” Armin starts before realizing that Jean is ignoring him again. “Okay, see you guys later, I guess.”

“We can finish this tomorrow,” Marco offers, smiling. Trying to make it less awkward. It doesn’t really work, at all. When he’s gone, it isn’t any less awkward. Jean is still glaring. Marco runs his fingers over his gear, picks at one of the dents. “So you get pretty intense when you’re jealous,” he says. Diffusing Jean is a talent that Marco has become adept at.

It works this time, like always, though Jean seems resentful. His shoulders curl inwards, but his back stays rigid. “Fuck you.”

Marco tips his head. “Oh, come off it. You aren’t even mad, not really.” And he’s right, Marco knows he is, but Jean’s expression doesn’t soften, gets darker even.

“I was really upset,” Jean says, it sounds like he’s talking through his teeth. Like he’s fighting for every word. “Because you got so weird on me. And you,” Jean shakes his head. His hands are fisted at his sides. Eyes squeezed shut, “you planned all of this? You wanted me to feel like an asshole.”

Marco crosses to Jean silently. Covers the distance. Too much like that first time, that first touch. He slides his palm over Jean’s hip. Jean stiffens, opens his eyes, breath coming in ragged, wretched little gasps. He starts to pull away, so Marco digs his fingers into the fabric to keep Jean from running. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. And he hadn’t.

He’d been overwhelmed, sitting in the woods with the taste of Jean’s come on his tongue and Jean’s spit drying on his cock. It had been a surreal, uncomfortable moment where Marco had realized he’d do anything for Jean. Absolutely fucking anything. He had realized, watching Jean wipe his chin, unabashed about what they had just done, that he was willing to abandon everything. All of it. All for one ultimately meaningless boy.

And that was a fucking scary thought.

He can see how Jean had misread that fear, or more accurately, how he’d read it perfectly. But he hadn’t understood it. It was scary, sure, but Marco was already down for the count, it was just coming to terms with it that was left.

Jean’s expression shifts, from pissed to broken in an instant. Marco wonders if anyone has ever seen Jean cry before, really cry. He wonders if he’s about to. “So what did you mean it like?” Jean asks, quiet and cold.

“I don’t know,” Marco answers honestly. “I just wanted to assure myself, I guess.” Jean narrows his eyes and Marco continues. “I mean, I realized just. Just what exactly you mean to me and I—I wanted to be sure that I mean just as much to you? It’s stupid. I guess. I know.” He bites his lip. “I am sorry.” Jean’s hand touches his wrist; fingers drawing small, nothing shapes on his skin.

“I’m sorry too,” Jean says.

“You don’t have to be, really. This whole mess is my fault,” he swallows, smiles. “It’s just. You’re so good at acting tough, it’s hard to remember sometimes.”

Jean grins back, a slow, mocking pull of his lips. “You’re supposed to be the only one who doesn’t doubt me.”

He’s right, of course. Marco doesn’t have anything to justify it. He should have been able to trust implicitly that Jean felt the same. In a way, he had. He’d just wanted pointless proof. He’d just wanted to see Jean lose it for him. And he feels guilty for hurting Jean, but he’d do it again, if given a do-over.

“I kinda liked seeing you jealous, seeing you in pain over me. It made me feel special,” Marco says, leaning his forehead against Jean’s, “I guess I’m not the nice guy I pretend to be.”

Jean’s hands raise to his shoulders, follow the slope of them up to his neck, nails scraping lightly against his skin. “Yeah, I guess you aren’t.” He sighs, his breath puffs against Marco’s chin. “But I guess you don’t have to be.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“You think?” Jean bites back, digging his fingers in a little harder. Marco winces, tightens his grip on Jean’s hips in response. “I mean, I was doing the same thing, in my own way. I think love, by its very definition, makes us exceedingly selfish.”

“That’s a pretty deep thought, for you, Jean,” Marco teases, dropping his head to kiss Jean’s cheek.

Jean tilts his face away from the kisses. He is smirking. “You keep purposefully acting like an asshole and people are gonna start talking about how I’ve corrupted you.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Marco says, hands sliding up Jeans sides, following his arms to intertwine their fingers, “so long as you keep actually corrupting me.”

“Me corrupt you?” Jean asks, actually managing to sound scandalized. “I do believe that you’re the one who started this shit. The one who kissed me first. If anyone is doing the corrupting here, it’s you.” He reclaims his one hand, fits it correctly in Marco’s, tracing his pointer over Marco’s knuckles in a motion Marco has realized is habit.

“I guess you’re right,” Marco admits, blushing, smiling, giddy. He’s overloaded again, overwhelmed in bright, ridiculous feelings. But this time he doesn’t let it frighten him. This time he does the right thing. This time he lets those feelings out. “I love you, Jean.” It’s the first time he’s really said it and it feels more natural to say than anything else in the world. Easier than falling, easier than jumping. Easier than anything.

Jean pauses, blinks. Squeezes Marco’s hand in his. He smiles as he answers. “I love you, too, Marco.” And hearing that, for Marco, is better than anything ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was it. I had stupid amounts of fun writing these two dummies and their stupid diabetes-inducing relationship and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it just as much. There may or may not be a college AU happening on my computer where these nerds get to live in a world where there are no Titans and nobody dies and everything is happy, so if you liked this keep a lookout for that (

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it please feel to leave kudos or comments or complaints or whatever. Thanks guys. See you in the second chapter hopefully which I promise will have sex. Promise.


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